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Schrodinger’s Son

I’ve long ago accepted my role as a guinea pig for demented and deranged psychological experiments. Or, y’know, just being a kid of a psychotherapist.

I’d like to say I’m a fairly well adjusted individual. I’m literate, have generally positive relationships, am hopefully well spoken, and the voices in my head aren’t too loud. I think everyone’s got a bit of crazy in them, and certainly if you’re an artist or musician or anything creative and hope that your pretty pictures or sounds will one day be cherished or supported by an audience you probably have a much higher dosage of crazy than the average Joe or “Joess.”

As for myself, I have recognized the repeating cycle of history and don’t plan on making any money off my art till I’m dead so kids…grandkids, this is for you. I’m quite the “expect the worst and hope for the best” kind of guy but boy do I expect the worst well. That probably has some deep psychological meaning on artistic self esteem and conflating events to untold levels of mental morose and paralyzation but I’ll put off confronting that and use that anxiety to paint a really cool picture in a year or two.

In the end, it’s the act of creation that I love. I may be broke, but I have a physical object that I created. I mean, wouldn’t that blow your mind? And don’t give me that mumbo jumbo about how one’s and zero’s aren’t “physical objects” because, well, I’ll kick ya or something. I’ll show you how I deal with conflicts of my world view. Did I give that enough sass? I was going for sassy.